It’s taken a whole nine months to venture out without my new daughter – leaving her at home with daddy in charge happened for the first time last Saturday.

I had meticulously planned this momentous event for two weeks, refining every detail with utmost precision. I planned my outfit down to the denier of my tights and was set to step into my towering 3.5 inch heels which had been in cupboard hibernation ever since the positive pregnancy test.

Shortly before the clock struck to get ready – I had planned a 40-minute window for preening and coiffing – an almighty raincloud engulfed Chipping Norton and it felt like we were hurtled into the eye of a storm.

My mood changed, I wanted a fire, a onesie and a glass of red. So I ditched the plan to dress up and settled for dressing down in a thick cable knit, trusty jeans and comfortable shoes.

My dear friend (and a fellow busy working mother of two) arrived and walked into the house brandishing a sock – the other was lost between Oxford and Chippy as her heels were hurting so much she needed the added comfort. She then started wrestling with something on the back of her neck that turned out to be an oversized plaster due to a rowing incident with an oar.

I accepted then and there that any hope of a glamorous night out with my friend wasn’t going to happen.

 

 

 The first time I encountered our Prime Minister was at the Cornbury music festival a few months ago.

As he strode ahead with his family I stalked him with a microphone – when I caught up with him I was gasping for air and very nearly fell at his sandal-clad feet.

My second rendezvous with the premier happened unexpectedly last weekend and this time I was much more composed.

DC was doing his shopping in Chipping Norton at the farmers’ market with his hessian bag for life.

As he sidled up to the fish man eyeing up some nice fresh pink crustacean, I walked casually behind him waiting for the appropriate moment to to find out what he had in his bag.

As he moved on to some lovely fresh local cheeses and various packs of locally produced bacon I closed in and stopped him in his tracks.

A whole five minutes later I walked away having discussed the family roast of pork belly that HE was cooking.

I ended the conversation suggesting I could join him “Chez Cam” at the family table. He didn’t entirely knock me back, just suggested this time he had too many mouths to feed.

OK, I guess that was the PM politely saying I wasn’t welcome.

Oh well if you’re going to get turned down by a politician… it may as well be the Prime Minister.